Place #2: Frick Park, June 18th. 2:40 P.M. Hazy.

Since its release, I’ve been obsessed with Kanye West’s My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. There are lots of reasons why and chiefly, I think it’s because it’s a sonic self-immolation of an egotistical male—something I can appreciate. After four, five weeks of being in environmental writing, however, I started to listen to the album a little bit differently.

A large majority of the songs, I noticed have a point of origin in a large city (Chicago, impoverished urban areas) and multiple themes of excess (Lamborghinis, diamond-encrusted pieces). Further than that though, I notice a lot of the songs to actually be about ego, power, popular culture, reminiscent of what Sanders was talking about with postmodern art’s lack of concern with our environment. However, as the album progresses, it appears to move away from each of those themes it and go into that raw self-laceration, the failure to connect in or due to the modern world, and winds down to the penultimate track, appropriately titled “Lost in the Woods” which I listen to on my way to Frick Park.

“Lost in the Woods,” as expected, is a song that begins with being fearful from flight of the modern world, but turns into a song about liberation and the beauty of reverting to a primal simplicity. It seems like a tired theme at this point, especially after our readings, but the coda blends into the final song “Who Will Survive in the America?” a song that relies heavily on poet Gil Scott-Heron’s “Comment No.1,” a near mournful vignette about the condition of men in an urbanized world.

I keep thinking what I said last week about solitude, how while I’m alone and even prefer to be in cities, I’m rarely ever unaccompanied in nature. It isn’t hard to see with that, I live a life filled with distractions and I’m starting to wonder what kind of impact that’s having on my writing and myself.

During this visit to Frick Park, I decide to go into a different part of it: The Ravine Trail near the preserved part of the park. As I was about to get out of my car and let “Who Will Survive in America?” finish, I thought of my friend Jenny at home. She has a remarkably stressful job with some of the most advanced technology on earth (Multicare Televisual Medicine…Don’t ask me to elaborate, I honestly couldn’t tell you). However, nearly every weekend, she seems to be out in the Olympic Rainforest or Mount Rainier. Unlike most people in a position of healthcare power, though, she’s really quite serene most of the time and I wonder how much of that comes from the balance of the extremes she maintains.

The problem I encountered in Frick during my first visit is quickly neutralized on the Ravine Trail: Probably no more than one-fifth of a mile do I hear no traffic whatsoever. My natural instinct is to want to go deeper, but I keep thinking about Wendell Berry and being more of a observer of one place instead of trying to cover as much terrain as possible. Maybe just see what happens instead of looking for it. I leave my headphones in the car.

I take my time down to the ravine noticing just as much below me on the trail as I do above me in the canopy. My eyes always seem to be up when I’m walking in the woods, but for the first time I see the feverfew, patches of grass, and the myriad of white clovers. The trees are thick, lightly shaded with mold. As my eyes move up, I’m lucky to see wild raspberries, mostly immature, but some a bright spring pink. Logs are split open and clovers that have yet to bloom are growing in the rift, but the dirt is auburn colored and bright.

The creeks are dried up at this point, leaving just moist dirt, a substance I can’t even call mud. I hear that baying of a dog that doesn’t sound very domesticated. For a minute, I feel like I’m really out somewhere. Of course, then comes the helicopter above. So close, Vincent.

The paths split off and I get a good look at the ravine. It’s deep. In the expanse there are three long oaks that stand out above the rest. Whereas the others are covered in slight mold, these are blanketed in ivy. I hear a gentleman and his guitar, but it is quickly muted by the wind and sun splitting open the haze a little. I find myself enjoying this, forgetting this is something I actually need to do. The wind is calm, doesn’t stop for a time, and I think of Muir and how he’d likely refer to this as music. I’m in a good mood today, though, and I think about what he was feeling instead of giving my typical, cynical laugh.

During my back and forth on this stretch of the trail, I come across an amber colored butterfly, in the shade, its wings dotted in black. It had long white legs and didn’t flinch when a basset hound flew by me at top speed, its owners behind in hot pursuit. The butterfly turns its wings about, showing an underside that is not unlike a shattered piece of the bark it’s resting on. After a time, it seems to notice me, and takes off hurriedly upward.

I think I’m afraid of being without distraction, completely aware of where my mind could go when it’s not occupied with something. I can’t even fall asleep unless music or television is on. That says a lot right there, doesn’t it?

My mind should be occupied with something today, but all I can think about is how this part of Frick Park smells different. Something is aromatic, sweet, a smell that could only be compared to an apple orchard after a misting or dew. I begin to notice maple, their leaves cantilevered, and grass long and golden like straw. I’ve only been here for forty-five minutes, already making my way back up to my car as there’s placed to go. But in this lone mile of the Ravine Trail, I saw more in forty-five minutes than the three hours spent the last time. I want to go further, I can’t help it. There’s a part of this reserve that’s protected, where bikes have to be walked, deeper in. I’ll save that for next time. This feels like more than enough today.